


Lebioda Saves

by poselikeateam



Series: The Witcher - Songfics and Song-Inspired [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jaskier | Dandelion Has PTSD, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Songfic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24598912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Just because Jaskier's job revolves around emotions, doesn't mean he's any good at dealing with his own. He especially does not like being faced with the mortality of his peers.(Or: Not your average AJJ songfic)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher - Songfics and Song-Inspired [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778191
Comments: 9
Kudos: 164
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Lebioda Saves

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to play around with what I could do with a songfic. So I took the lyrics from _Jesus Saves_ by AJJ and used all of them in the dialogue of this fic. The only change I made to the original lyrics is subbing "Lebioda" for "Jesus". Let me know if you like it, I kind of want to do this kind of thing again. I have a few songs in mind.
> 
> CW for drug use, death, and overdose (all implied/referenced through dialogue).
> 
> I'm still staying with my regular upload schedule for my ongoing fics, I just wanted to put this one up now. Cheers!

Geralt and Jaskier have been friends for a very long time now. Admittedly, life without the bard is almost inconceivable at this point. At the very least, he doesn't want to conceive of it. They have been through a lot together, and hopefully they will continue to be, well, together; he could do without being put through quite so much from here on. 

He has known the bard for long enough that he is pretty sure he isn't _just_ a human bard. If he were, he would have shown signs of aging, by now. Ciri is a young woman, older now than Jaskier was when they'd met, and still the bard looks the same. If anything, it's a comfort; time, at least, will not take Jaskier from him. 

Sometimes, though, it feels like _Jaskier_ isn't aware of that fact.

It's always jarring when he decides to get _philosophical_. His songs will become slow and sad, until his playing stops altogether, and he looks at Geralt with wide, sad eyes. 

"There will come a day when our cells won't regenerate," he murmurs one night, staring into their campfire, "and everyone we know will rot away." 

"What?" Geralt asks, because he honestly hadn't expected this line of thought.

"Rot away!" Jaskier says, louder, almost frantic. 

"I heard you," Geralt says with a frown, "I'm just wondering what brought this on."

The bard shrugs, still only looking at the fire. His knees are drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and he looks so _small_. "When we travel together, it's like... time doesn't really _exist_. There's just you, and me, and Roach, and the Path. But sometimes, I think... I mean, you save these people, but they're just going to die _anyway_. I'll be having a grand old time, and then this little voice in my head will come out of the woodwork and tell me, 'Your friends and enemies, and all your family — they will all be buried in the ground.' In the _ground_ , Geralt!" 

He's obviously distressed, and it's worrying. Geralt isn't very good with emotions, and he _certainly_ isn't good with mortality. It's something he generally tries to avoid, because nothing good can come out of dwelling on it. He has to say _something_ , though, because he can't stand seeing his normally upbeat friend like this. 

"No one knows when they're going to die," he says. The words feel heavy on his tongue. "One of the first things we learn before starting out on the Path is that any moment could be our last. Dwelling on it will only bring that moment sooner."

"How do you deal with it, then?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt has to think about that for a moment.

"I had a talk like this with Eskel, once," he finally answers. "He said, 'Let's make the most of it, because life's too short to fuck with'."

Somehow, that seems to help. He estimates that the bard is in this depressive state for no more than an hour, and it's a relief when he snaps back into his usual mood.

The witcher has seen his friend — and he can't deny that they are anything less, by now — in many different emotional states. Usually, though, the bard is cheerful. Even his melancholy state never seems that serious, and he snaps back into a good temperament with relative ease. Obviously, they don't spend _all_ of their time together, but when two men travel with each other for as long as they have, one doesn't really expect any sudden surprises.

Honestly, he should have known better.

If there is anything that he can expect with Jaskier, it is the unexpected. Well, obviously music as well, but that goes without saying. The point is that Jaskier's greatest non-musical talent seems to be surprising Geralt, which he wants to make clear is _very_ hard to do when Jaskier is _not_ involved. 

All of this leads up to the sight of Jaskier crying.

He's seen Jaskier cry before, obviously, but only when something caused it. For all of his self-proclaimed emotional range, it seems to take a lot to get the bard to actually shed tears. Honestly, it seems like he barely cries more easily than Geralt himself. So, obviously, this is alarming.

"What happened?" he asks, kneeling in front of the bard. He's already checking him for injuries because, frankly, Jaskier isn't the most careful person. It isn't likely that he's gotten any news, as they are in the middle of a forest, but a raven could have found him. It's not _impossible_ , but injury seems the most likely.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier says wetly, trying to dry his eyes with the back of his hand. "I didn't hear you coming."

"Are you hurt?" Geralt presses, and when Jaskier shakes his head he asks again, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," the bard answers, shaking his head again. The way he shakes with poorly-concealed sobs makes that answer a lot less convincing.

"You're crying," says Geralt, "so I doubt it's nothing."

"It's Tuesday," says Jaskier, as if that is an actual answer.

"Yes, a little past noon, slightly cloudy, with low humidity," Geralt answers wryly. "Any more observations?"

Jaskier laughs, and Geralt privately feels like he's accomplished something, until he says, "You're really cutting into my hour, you know."

"Jaskier," he says in what he hopes is a very patient way that doesn't show his frustration, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The bard looks embarrassed, and Geralt wonders how _that_ managed to evoke some sense of shame. "Well, I do try to keep it to myself, you understand," he answers.

"No, I don't understand, actually."

With a sigh, Jaskier says. "It's very simple, Geralt. Once an hour a day, I get _very_ sad."

"What?"

"Yeah. Once an hour a day, I get depressed," he says, like he's explaining a very simple concept, "and when that hour is over I start to feel okay, because... well, I am reminded I'll rot away."

"Rot away?" Geralt repeats, bewildered.

Jaskier shrugs. "I don't have much time to hang out here and cry," he says. "Though that may feel nice, I can't do that _every_ day. I've found that once a week seems to do the trick."

"You... give yourself an hour a day to be sad, and a day a week to cry?" Geralt asks slowly.

The bard laughs and shakes his head again, like Geralt's just told a very good joke. "No, you silly witcher," he says, and _that_ is a very patient tone. "I only cry for an hour, not a full day. Could you imagine the kind of time that would waste?"

"I still don't understand this," says the witcher.

"It's been... well, it's just been something I've done since I was a student in Oxenfurt," Jaskier says. He looks sort of uncomfortable, and Geralt realises that the bard may not have ever discussed this with anyone before. That, at least, is a feeling that he can absolutely relate to. "You know how bards have a reputation for hedonism. Well, it's not entirely unearned. I've... had a lot of friends, and they've done a lot of drugs, and those drugs... have made my friends rot away." And there's that phrase again, _rot away_. 

Geralt thinks he understands, suddenly. "So you started doing _this_ to cope with _that_ ," he guesses.

Jaskier nods, and he's crying again; it doesn't look like he's trying to stop it, anymore. So, Geralt does the only thing he can think to do, and pulls him into a hug. It's kind of awkward, because he's still not entirely used to hugging as more than a concept, but Jaskier and Ciri have trained him well enough in this particular art that it could certainly be worse. 

He allows the bard to sob into his shoulder, just holding him until it's over. If he can't do anything else, at least he can offer this comfort. Finally, the tears slow, and Jaskier draws in a deep, shuddering breath. 

"I... Every time I go to a bardic competition, or I go back to Oxenfurt, someone else has died," he says. His words are muffled by Geralt's shoulder, but it isn't difficult to hear with how close he is. Neither of them lets go, even as Jaskier continues to speak. "Sometimes it's... it's the ones you'd expect, you know? Someone who was sick, or old, or-or enjoyed fisstech a little too much. People who live more dangerously, like me." At that, Geralt clutches the bard closer. He doesn't like being reminded of the danger he constantly puts Jaskier in just by being his companion. 

"Sometimes, though," Jaskier continues, sounding far away, "sometimes it's... entirely unexpected. A murder, or an accident, or a sudden illness. Some of us — the bards, I mean — like to... bet on who's going to be next. There's always a, well, a notable exchange of coin whenever I show up."

Geralt growls. "That's fucking sick," he says. He doesn't know why humans have to be so _morbid_. Even witchers mourn the brothers they knew, and death is the only thing in their lives that's guaranteed. They're trained to not have emotion, and they still aren't so callous. Maybe it wouldn't bother him so much if people weren't apparently betting on whether his bard has died, but... it really bothers him, honestly. 

"We all cope differently," Jaskier answers. It sounds like something he's just resigned to. 

"There's a difference between _coping_ and being a piece of shit," Geralt says. He finally pulls away from what is probably the longest hug in his life to date, but only enough to look Jaskier in the eye; his hands are still on the other man's shoulders, and he hopes it's comforting. He supposes that if it wasn't, Jaskier would simply push them off. 

Now that Geralt can see him, Jaskier shrugs. He worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment, like he's trying to decide whether to allow certain words out of his mouth, before he apparently gives in to the impulse to keep talking. It's always been his weakness, after all. "I still go to the services," he admits. "If I'm nearby, I mean, and it's someone I know. It's gotten to the point where every fucking competition has a moment of silence for those who didn't show up, so I suppose I go to everyone's funeral one way or another. No matter who it was, or where they died, or what they believed, it's always the same fucking thing every year. Some priest or priestess droning on about how our friends are in the Gods' hands, that Saint Lebioda is watching over us. They say 'Lebioda saves', but _Lebioda doesn't care_ because _he_ is in the grave." 

And now Jaskier is crying again, holding Geralt close again, muttering, "In the grave, in the grave," like those are the only words he knows. Again, Geralt waits for him to calm down. He tries rubbing Jaskier's back, and it goes more quickly this time. Apparently it's soothing, which he decides to make a mental note of for next time (because of course there will be a next time; as uncomfortable as this is, he isn't going to let Jaskier go through this alone now that he knows).

Honestly, he's never been one for the false platitudes offered by religion. Jaskier knows this. Fuck, anyone who's talked with him on the subject knows this. Being told that his life is in the hands of the Gods or of Destiny has never sat well with him. His decisions are _his_ , and if any higher power _were_ watching over him, well, they've done a pretty shit job of it.

And since the Gods aren't protecting anyone, at least not like the faithful like to say, he has an idea of what to say. "I've never understood the idea of trusting someone else to live your life for you. If that's what Gods are for, then fuck it. Let's be our own Gods," he decides, "and take care of ourselves and the ones that we love."

"We've been doing a pretty good job so far," Jaskier agrees. Geralt can feel the bard's smile against his neck, and he is suddenly _very_ aware of how close they are. 

"Hmm," he says. Frankly, he feels like he's passed his eloquence quota for the next decade.

Jaskier pulls back just enough to look into Geralt's eyes. He can feel the bard's breath on his lips, and it's intoxicating. "Can I take care of you, then?" Jaskier asks quietly. 

Geralt swallows thickly. The implication behind that is heavy; Jaskier is saying that he _loves_ him.

"You already do," he answers quietly. "Will you let me take care of you as well?"

"You already do," the bard echoes, before brushing their lips together.

Geralt leans into it, and that in and of itself is a commitment. This kiss is full of unspoken promises, full of meaning, and neither man seems to want to let it end. 

Later that night, after they've made camp, Geralt kisses Jaskier again just because he _can_. The pleased little hum he gets in return is _very_ satisfying. 

"You know," says the witcher, "you aren't going to _rot away_. Not for a long time, not if I have any say in it."

"Mm," Jaskier answers, "but I'm still... well, I can't live as long as you, darling."

"Can't you?"

"Ah, well..." the bard looks almost like a child caught stealing candy. "I suppose you've noticed the, ah, longevity, then?"

Geralt rolls his eyes. "Bit hard not to," he says. "Ciri sprouts up like a weed, and you stay the same?"

"Of course it would take your _daughter_ to make you pay attention to the world around you," the bard teases, knocking their knees together. 

"Hmm," is the only answer he gives to that, because there are so many different things he _could_ respond to but _all_ of them are bait, and he knows it.

So, it turns out that they are both terrible at processing emotions in a healthy way. Thankfully, they know how to help each other through it. _Their own Gods_ , indeed.


End file.
